Dear reader,
Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Mercy Kannemeyer, I’m 30 years old, and I’m from South Africa. I’m the vice-chairperson of PEN Afrikaans.
I am a playwright, screenwriter, director and academic. My plays include The tongue | Die tong (2025), Boesak (2023), Woorde op akkoorde (2020), Die bul die wil nie (2020), Ons is nie almal so nie (2019), Ekstra large, asseblief? (2019, 2020) and Prinz Betliegend (2018). You can find more about my screenwriting, education and documentary making in my biography.
Currently I’m a lecturer at the University of Johannesburg, where I teach Afrikaans Drama, Afrikaans Methodology and Communication Skills.
Due to the nature of my work, I engage with young people quite often. In a sense I have my finger on the pulse of what our young people are experiencing. In the country. In the world. In their heads. In many of the students, I see a version of myself before joining the PEN family. I joined PEN Afrikaans shortly after the pandemic broke out. At the time I was a master’s student in Drama at the University of Stellenbosch. I was also actively making theatre and trying to find my place in the arts sector of our country. Having made my professional debut as a playwright and director in 2019, I was eager to continue creating boldly in 2020. And then – boom! A pandemic. Life changed. I was no longer a carefree student. I was locked up in my flat. Mostly alone.
I was looking for a community. Baking banana bread and attempting to crochet only kept me entertained for so long! I joined PEN Afrikaans and found more than a community! I found my place in the discourse surrounding language, literature and the creative arts. A part of me finding my place with PEN, is also reconciling with my younger self. As a young girl I’ve always lived, as they say, with my head in the clouds. A dreamer. While my teachers were trying to teach me about Pythagoras, e=mc2 or the platonic plates, my mind was far off in a world where goats could speak, angels would guide little lost girls, and if you wish hard and intensely enough, you might be able to fly.
(Un)fortunately, we grow up. I grew up. And in reality, there were no talking animals or fairy dust that appear with every dream. Instead, there is a world that needs facing.
My reality? Growing up in a democratic South Africa with the frequent question surrounding freedom. As born-frees many often remind us – I was born in 1994 – that we should be grateful! We are free! We did not have to suffer under a harsh regime that killed many of our parents, and their parents, and their parents, and their… While I do not negate the sacrifices of my forefathers, I do question this freedom that we’re so often presented with.
How do I celebrate this freedom when it’s conditional? How do I cheerfully jump for joy hallelujah when my parents and their friends still have bruises that shows a life lived under an evil regime? I celebrate with a tear in my eye, that’s how. I celebrate with the knowledge that it is my – and our – responsibility as young writers to not forget where we come from.
Growing up in a democratic South Africa has undeniably impacted my voice. This might be reductive, but please follow me here – on the one hand we have an apathy problem, and on the other hand, we have those fighting the good fight. To the apathy camp, I want to say this… I used to often envy those who can turn the switch off and simply look away. How do you look away? In the face of horror, inequality, a femicide, gross human rights violations, how do you look away? At times it feels impossible to look away. My fellow South Africans, my fellow young people, my fellow people, let’s not look away. We can simply not afford it.
